


Go ask Alice

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Gen, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-21
Updated: 2003-01-21
Packaged: 2018-11-10 10:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11125575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Alice is a prostitute, sixteen years old and wise beyond her years. Her mind as she is questioned about her pimp, a devious, ruthless criminal with delusions of granduer.





	Go ask Alice

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

  
Go ask Alice

## Go ask Alice

by Goodbye Blue Monday

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except Alice. 

Author's Notes: This is un beta-d but I havfe read it over and over and over. more may come, depending on the response. I have a whole story written out, but it gets very heavy beyond this. 

Story Notes: 

This story is a sequel to: This is a prequel to an entire series, but can be read as a stand alone. Basicaly, a young girl is hauled in for questioning, but is unwilling to talk. This part is pretty tame, but it gets violent later on. 

* * *

"Why did you lie to me Alice?" He asks, leaning forward and breathing all over me. As is to be expected, he is talking to me like I'm a child. 

"I didn't lie to you detective Kowalski. I embellished." I explain casually. Not patronisingly like some people seem intent on doing. I hate being patronised. 

"Do you know what your little embellishment cost me Alice? Do you?" He seems to be getting angry now. There's this vein in the middle of his head, and it's starting to stick out like it always does when he's mad. And he's starting to go all red. Getting mad does nothing for the complexion. 

"No." I answer, deciding that the meek approach is the best way to calm him down. 

"An entire goddamn day! A whole day, wanderin' around this city, talkin' to scum like you for nothing."  
He screams the first part, and his spit lands in my face. Why do people always have to scream right in your face when they get mad? I mean, fine, get mad, yell, whatever, just don't spray it all over me. 

"Well you don't have to spit all over me!" I yell back. This appears to have not been the best approach because he stands up now and is pacing around the room running his hand through his bizarre hair. 

"Alice. I want the truth, and I want it now. If you don't tell me the truth, then I'm going to turn you in. Do you understand?" He's leaning against the table now, right in front of me. His arms are actually pretty muscular, considering how skinny he looks. I mean, if he was offering money, I probably wouldn't say no. 

This is not the time to be thinking about muscular detectives. And maybe I should try to get my mind off the job, considering I'm semi-under arreset and all. The muscles in his forearms twitch as he leans down on the table. Not that I noticed. Just gettin' it all down. In the interest of journalism, and twinkies, and stuff. Ya know? 

"You wouldn't." I ask, warily because I know he would. You can't trust anyone, especially cute detectives who offer you money and food and pretend they don't want anything in return then drag you into the precinct to answer lots of questions that could get you killed. 

"You wanna try me?" He asks, tipping his head. I glare. The head tipping thing is an attempt at cute, and almost worked. Emphasis on the almost. 

"Do you have any idea what would happen to me if you do that?" I ask him. He doesn't. He thinks he does but he doesn't. These detective types, they think they know it all. 

"I know exactly what'll happen to you. They'll send you to a foster home and you won't be able to sell your body to strangers on the street any more. You'll even have to go to school, and you won't have to worry about your pimp beating you into a pulp." He says, thinking he's funny. He doesn't know about the last foster home I was in though, so it's best to let him think he's right. I heard some foster homes are nice with people who genuinely want kids and care about them. In others you end up with a fat alcoholic guy who beats and rapes you and only wants the money. It's not like adoption where they only give kids to nice people. Detectives, or any other cops for that matter, always try so hard to convince themselves that the system works. The ones that know it doesn't are usually the ones that come to me and, shall we say, aquire my services. Once you see how tough and jaded life is, there's really not much else to do, besides give in and get tough and /or jaded yourself. Me, I'm both. Went to high school one day, realsized how little it was doin' for me, and left. I guess if it's you're kinda thing, it's you're kinda thing. If it does you nothin' but harm, you gotta dodge it as best you can. And it was doin' me harm in about a million kinda ways. Anyway, I digress. 

"Do you know what he'll do to me if I tell you?" I ask him. Again, he has no idea. The whole jaded immoral cops, and la la land good guys thing again.   
This time, I think it would be better to haul him out of la la land. "I'll tell you. He would have me killed. In a slow, hideous way, probably involving knives and definitely involving lit cigarettes." 

"Not if I put him in jail." He says, still leaning on the table with his muscular arms and breathing all over me. Some cops, the beautifully anti- jaded ones think they know everything. They think life is all one big John Wayne movie and once you kill the villain, everything will be okay. I don't know how someone so old could possibly be so naive. I'm sixteen, and even I know that's bullshit. But I guess in a ,ot of ways, sixteen passed me by a long time ago. Sometimes I long for it, sometimes I'm glad I know better. 

"I can't!" I tell him. I actually sound quite whiney. I wonder if I always sound like that. He doesn't seem to like this answer either because he's gone out. He's probably talking to the Canadian guy. Every time I say something he either likes very, very much or really, really hates, he and the Mountie go and hold a conference in the corner. I'm not invited. Now, I have to sit here in this damn interview room, which is bland and hideous, and do nothing. He won't even let me smoke on account of me being underage and not telling him what he wants to know. The Mountie walks in now. His name is Benton Fraser, but Detective Kowalski calls him Fraser, for some strange reason you must have to be a cop to comprehend. They all do it. Call each other by last names. It's very impersonal and I would hate it if people started calling me Anderson all the time. 

"Hello Alice." The Mountie says, sitting down across from me. 

"Hi Constable Fraser." I reply, because it's expected. I wait for him to launch into a story. The last time, he told me this great story about coming to Chicago on the trail of his Father's killers. He wasn't going to embellish on it but I asked. I like Constable Fraser because he told me I was very articulate, and on account of the fact that he didn't spit on me. 

"Detective Kowalski tells me your reluctant to reveal the location of Mr Grant because you're afraid for your safety." He says. I raise my eyebrows. 

"Yeah, that's pretty accurate." I tell him. He's articulate too. It means, basically, that you explain things in such a way that no-one knows what the hell you're talking about. 

"You know, if you testify against him, he'll go to jail. We'll make sure he never harms you again." He informs me. Once again, cops with the John Wayne bullshit. 

"He has people. Lots of them. And he'd get out on bail. That's when I'm guessing he'd kill me." I say patronizingly. I really shouldn't patronize people, especially this guy who's smarter than most. But, I get nervous, I talk in simple, accurate sentences. It's gotten me into trouble before. 

"Detective Kowalski and I will make sure that you are harmed in no way." He explains to me solemnly, with big brown, expressive eyes. Men all have expressive eyes that beg you to trust them, until they screw you, both figuratively and literally. 

"Well, that's fine, until the trial is over. Then, even if he is put away, which is seriously doubtful since you guys have zilch and nobodies gonna believe me, he has people who will make sure I die slowly. And you can tell Kowalski I'm not going back into care either. He can forget it. And if I have to run away from another foster home, there's no way I'm ever ratting out another small timer either. I don't care if he has condoms and food." I explain, getting very, very angry. The Mountie looks very embarrassed and confused. I think it's the condoms that did it. "He gives me the condoms for other people. It's not like he's a customer." I add, trying to make the Mountie feel better, and kind of wish I hadn't said it. The confusion goes, but he looks even more embarrassed now, so I decide to give up. The Mountie sighs, but things get quite exciting as Kowalski bursts in. 

"Look, you little punk!" He says, slamming his hands down on the desk and screaming into my face, with, I may add, a record amount of spitting. "Tell me where he is! The son of a bitch is out there right now peddling dope to seven year olds, and that's your fault." He informs me. Personally, I find that accusation highly insulting. 

"Fuck you, you son of a bitch!" I scream at him, which is possibly not the wittiest of retorts, but effective. "And by the way, this good cop bad cop bullshit is totally not working. And stop fucking spitting on me!" Sometimes, I wish I could come something better than the average, angry sixteen year old retort, but I'm mad as hell right now. 

And I'm really sick of him spitting on me. This, however, has invoked another conference in the corner. They're whispering to each other. This, I imagine, can only be the inevitable deal. When their little meeting breaks, they'll suggest I go live in Utah with some nice Amish folks under a false name and with no connections to Chicago. The wonder that is the Witness Protection Program. All I can say is ick, and that isn't even a word. 

"Okay. " Kowalski eventually says, slouching into the chair opposite me. 

"I'm not going into the Witness Protection Program." I say with my arms folded across my chest, and my best "is that the best you got" expression on my face. This was DEFINITLEY the wrong thing to say because now he's up, stomping around going "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" which in my opinion is unacceptable language to be using in front of such a young, impressionable girl. The Mountie looks uncomfortable. I wonder if they have cursing in Canada. Kowalski eventually calms down and slumps into the chair with his forehead on the table and his head in his hands. 

"Okay, look, Alice." He says from that position. I can barely understand him, but now he lifts his head, which is better. "I know you had a rough time in the foster homes in the past, but I'll make sure your okay this time. I swear." He practically begs. 

"What the hell would you know?" I ask him petulantly. I know I being petulant because I've gone all pouty. It's not like I'm happy with this turn in my emotions, but what can I say? horomones are delightful. 

"I know you were raped. And I know he used to beat you up if you didn't get up at six am to cook breakfast, or even if he just had a bad day." He explains openly, which comes as a real surprise to me. I had no idea he knew that stuff. "How do I know?" He asks, reading my expression. I nod weakly. I don't think I could talk right now. I didn't think another living soul knew, aside from the son of a bitch who did it to me. "I'll tell you when you tell me." He says. 

"Screw you." I tell him in a small, cracking voice. I feel like I may cry in a minute, which is a very rare and very bad thing. 

"Alice, c'mon." It's his turn to whine now, and he does it rather well. "I know you're a good kid. You helped me put away all those other guys because of the children, why not this guy?" 

"The other guys were nothings. Little insignificant pushers. Jack is totally different. I can't do this Detective Kowalski. I'm sorry, but I can't." I explain, cutting him off, which is very rude but necessary. I have to make him understand. He sighs and looks at the Mountie. They nod at each other and Kowalski leaves. The Mountie wanders around for a little while then sits down. 

"Alice." He says, making eye contact. This is a cop trick. He's trying to break me. 

"No." I say. I want to tell them where Jack is. I really do. Jack is my pimp. Not only that, he's a drug dealer. He gives drugs indiscriminately. Seven-year-old kids outside of grade schools, forty-year-old businessmen, you name it. Jack supplies them with all the poison they need. That's why this Kowalski bastard needs me. He's not really a bastard. I'm sure he is, in fact, a really sweet guy. But that don't help me none. 

"I'm leaving." I inform the Mountie, who immediately stands up. I push past him towards the door. Kowalski bursts in and decides I'm "Goin' nowhere" 

"You want to book me with something detective? Fine. You do that. We both know it aint gonna make a difference. And if you book me, we're through. " I explain as rationally as I can. He opens his mouth and closes it again, kind of like a fish. It would actually be pretty funny if I wasn't trying not to cry so despratley. "Not just with Jack either. Everything. I won't even tell you if your underwear's showing. I'm sorry about those kids. Really. But I don't need to be chained to a radiator for a week. Again." I push past him. He watches me walk down the hall with his mouth open. He won't do anything though. He acts tough, but he knows what'll happen to me if I don't go back. It sucks, but it's true. 

This is my life. Don't you just love it? 

* * *

End Go ask Alice by Goodbye Blue Monday:

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